A Waft of Marrakech
Transported by the scent of spice in my apron
When I returned from Wyoming, I unpacked my art suitcase. I hadn’t gone through the outside pockets the last time I bought it home, but this time, I reached into the front and found the apron I thought I’d lost.
As I tugged it out, still folded from the day I stuck it in there, a wild explosion of scent came from it, releasing Marrakech into the air. All at once, I was there, feeling the heat of the sun pressing down on the canvas tarps overhead, hearing the music playing, feeling the brush in my hand. I was not just remembering, I was entirely transported by a mingling smell of spice and acrylic paint and a little note I can’t quite name to those hot days spent painting and laughing and dancing along with the music. There, with my friends. There, eating things I hadn’t never tasted. There, petting many cats in the medina, and buying trinkets for my desk.
The trip was the most impulsive I’ve taken, to a painting workshop with a teacher I really like, a laid back Californian who teaches the principles of good art in an entirely approachable and understandable way. Because of our big move, I hadn’t really planned to take an overseas trip last year, but an email landed in my inbox at just the right moment, when I needed something to fill the well and give myself some space. I’d wanted to go to Morocco for awhile (especially after all the research for my 60s flight attendant in Write My Name Across the Sky.) Impulsively, I signed up, booked my flights, and on a sunny October morning, headed out on the long, long journey—Bandon to Portland to Denver to Frankfurt to Marrakech.
And worth every moment. Since attending university with a contingent of Middle Eastern students, I’ve always been fascinated by the Arab world. Morocco has the intriguing distinction of not being absorbed and dominated by the Persian influence that so shaped history in the area for centuries, so it is a unique place. Magical. Colorful, but also dusty and on the outskirts of empires. I asked the concierge for a recommendation on Moroccan history before I left, and he, who had just earned his doctorate in this area, suggested Two Arabs, a Berber, and a Jew, by Laurence Rosen. I am reading it slowly.
Anyway. It wasn’t a long trip—a fast week, and almost all of it spent painting. A few of us took a couple of side trips to the medina (shiny clean for the world bank conference there the same week—maybe it’s always that tidy, but maybe not). Earthquake damage was visible in braced walls and tumbled bricks. It was too hot, but then one day it rained on us while we ate lunch in a gloriously beautiful riad. The evenings were heaven, eating beautiful food outside at candlelit tables with other artists from all over the world. I was afraid of scorpions, but learned that cats can kill them, by knocking them on to their backs and attacking their bellies, so was happy to feed the strays around the property. War broke out, a horrific war nearby. We still painted in the heat, feasted on vegetables, learned some stories of Moroccan life.
I didn’t ride a camel or go to see charmed cobras, only shopped and did my best to haggle. A man sternly told me not to take his picture as he rode by on a motorcyle, but I was only aiming for the broken roof over his head. Mostly, I simply painted. Painting is entirely non-verbal, which makes it a perfect hobby for a person who works with words. Words are also a kind of paint, which I’m using now to build this world for you, but visual language rests me, fills the well, gives me space to mull over what I might be trying to say in my stories.
All of this came flooding into my body when I unfolded that apron. I held the fabric to my nose and closed my eyes and let myself live it all again for a few moment. I was so happy to have the apron itself back, with paint splattered on it from the sessions, a coffee stain across the hem. For a long moment, I wondered if I should tuck it into a plastic bag to hold the scent, but then shook it out, put it on, and started playing with a painting on my easel. Marrakech is still there. My new friends are a text away. The days are part of me now, compost in the heap. That’s all I need.
Have you ever been transported to a different time or place by a scent? Tell us about it.
When I was going on ten, living in a new town and a new house, I would hop on my bike early on Saturdays and Sundays to escape the drama at home. I would cycle for miles away from the housing development into the countryside of northern Delaware. On one of my first forays that spring--perhaps my very first--I encountered hundreds of daffodils growing alongside creeks and ponds. I stopped to smell them, reveling in the perfume of wet earth mixed with an overlay of anise. To this day, daffodils are my favorite flower for their scent. Smelling the ones I grow always takes me back to a time when i was able to comfort myself with the beauty and fragrance of outdoors in the spring--damp earth, sunshine, and daffodils.